Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Praise for William C. Dietz’s Legion of the Damned and The Final Battle
“A tough, moving novel of future warfare.”
—David Drake
“A complex novel ... scintillating action scenes ... A satisfying, exciting read.”
—Billie Sue Mosiman, author of Widow
“Rockets and rayguns galore ... and more than enough action to satisfy those who like it hot and heavy.”
—The Oregonian
“Exciting and suspenseful ... real punch.”
—Publishers Weekly
Praise for Dietz’s Sam McCade series
“Slam-bang action.”
—David Drake
“Adventure and mystery in a future space empire.”
—F. M. Busby
“All-out space action.”
—Starlog
“Good, solid, space opera, well told.”
—Science Fiction Chronicle
Ace Books by William C. Dietz
GALACTIC BOUNTY
FREEHOLD
PRISON PLANET
IMPERIAL BOUNTY
ALIEN BOUNTY
McCADE’S BOUNTY
DRIFTER
DRIFTER’S RUN
DRIFTER’S WAR
LEGION OF THE DAMNED
BODYGUARD
THE FINAL BATTLE
WHERE THE SHIPS DIE
STEELHEART
BY BLOOD ALONE
BY FORCE OF ARMS
DEATHDAY
EARTHRISE
FOR MORE THAN GLORY
FOR THOSE WHO FELL
RUNNER
LOGOS RUN
WHEN ALL SEEMS LOST
WHEN DUTY CALLS
AT EMPIRE’S EDGE
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
BY BLOOD ALONE
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with the author
PRINTING HISTORY
Ace edition / July 1999
Copyright 1999 by William C. Dietz.
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eISBN : 978-1-101-49574-2
ACE
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DEDICATION
To Mike Davison, the 24-hour shoot, 28 days on the road, the oil rig in the gulf, New York, New York, Buckskin Mary, hot air balloons, helicopters, crop dusters and motorcycles, 230 miles down the Big Salmon and a beer at the other end. All of it was fun in a painful sort of way. Thanks!
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Dr. Sheridan Simon, who designed the Hudathan homeworld, the Hudathans themselves, and the planet Algeron; Tony Geraghty, author of March or Die; Christian Jennings, author of Mouthful of Rocks; and John Robert Young, author of the The French Foreign Legion.
1
Troops must obey or die. There is no other choice.
Mylo Nurlon-Da
The Life of a Warrior
Standard year1703
Planet Earth, the Confederacy of Sentient Beings
The sun rose blood red, threw shadows toward the Pacific, and bathed the campus in soft pink light. Colonel William “Bill” Booly III left the BOQ, savored the crisp morning air, and looked across the quad. He was a tall man with his mother’s steady gray eyes and his father’s rangy body. The tan stopped at his collar. He nodded to a civilian and stepped onto a carefully maintained path.
The pavement was barely wide enough to accommodate four people running abreast, or two columns of two, which was the way that cadets moved from place to place. Just one of the methods by which they were taught to follow orders, work as a team, and focus on group objectives.
The administration building, also known as Tonel Hall, lay directly ahead. His father had been the first person of Naa descent to enter the academy, carry the class pennant over the rooftops, and collide with a general while making his escape. A story he had heard what? A hundred times?
A company of cadets crossed in front of the officer, and the commander, a skinny little thing who rarely saw a captain much less a colonel, saluted, snapped her head toward the front and called the cadence. “Your left, your left, your left, right, left ...”
Booly smiled, returned the salute, and fell into step. It had been more than fifteen years since he had marched to class ... but it might as well have been yesterday.
He remembered how the door would slam open, the cadet leader would yell “Hit the deck,” and his roommate would groan. Then came the cold floor tiles, a hot shower, and the same old breakfast. All so he could become an officer in a military organization that had survived for more than seven hundred years. Not for a country, not for a cause, but for themselves.
Legio patria nostra. “The Legion is my country.” That was the Legion’s motto and, in the minds of some, its primary weakness.
The a
dministration building loomed above. A cadet snapped to attention, clicked his heels, and offered a rifle salute.
The officer returned it and approached the door. The push panels glowed. Booly wondered if they were the same ones he had polished, or if the daily friction eventually wore holes through solid metal.
The lobby was enormous. A painting of King Louis-Philippe occupied most of one wall. A plaque was mounted below, and like every graduate Booly knew the words by heart: ARTICLE 1
There will be formed a Legion composed of Foreigners.
This Legion will take the name of Foreign Legion.
The side walls were decorated with battle flags, some ragged and stained by what might have been blood, others as pristine as if just removed from the box. Not too surprising, since flags had very little place in modern battles-and were typically incinerated along with those who carried them.
The air smelled of floor wax and something Booly couldn’t quite put his finger on. Mold? Rot? No, bricks don’t decay, not Legion bricks.
A corporal sat ensconced behind three hundred pounds of solid oak. He wore the insignia of the 3rd REI, two five-year service stripes, and a pair of campaign medals. He’d seen a lot of colonels and wasn’t impressed by this one. “Good morning, sir. Can I be of assistance?”
Booly looked into the scanner without being asked. “Yes, thank you. Colonel William Booly—here for Captain Pardo’s court martial. Could you direct me to the proper room?”
The corporal consulted his terminal, confirmed the officer’s s identity, and watched an icon twirl. He touched a key. “There’s a message, sir. From General Loy ... Please join him prior to the proceedings.”
General Arnold M. Loy, Commanding Officer, Earth Sector. He shared the building with the academy’s commandant and was in charge of the court martial. Booly knew the officer’s reputation if not the man himself. Medal of Valor, Battle Star, and Croix de Guerre. Some described Loy as “a hero of the Confederacy” and some called him “the butcher of Bakala.” Both views were probably true.
The request could be routine, an administrative matter of some sort, or—and this was what Booly feared—the first sign of politics in what promised to be a highly charged proceeding. He nodded to the corporal. “Top fioor—south side?”
The noncom nodded. “Yes, sir. Some things never change.”
The corporal watched the officer climb the well-worn stairs. Poor sod. Loy would eat him for breakfast. The noncom savored the thought and chuckled. His coffee break was due in fifteen minutes. That’s what he liked about the Legion. Do what you’re told, keep your nose clean, and things took care of themselves.
General Loy heard the knock and knew who it was. He rose from his chair, turned his back on the room, and looked out through the window. An important man thinking important thoughts. The pose had been calculated once—but that was a long time ago. “Enter.”
Booly opened the door and stepped through. The office looked as he had expected it to look. Formal and somewhat spartan. The desk was huge, as if part of a barricade, and mostly bare. What momentos there were had been arranged like legionnaires on parade. The rest of the furnishings consisted of some heavily worn guest chairs, a credenza made of Turr wood, and a wall of carefully arranged stills. Loy on Algeron, Loy with the President, Loy on Bakala. Not one single photo of someone else.
Booly, hat held in the crook of his arm, snapped to attention. “Colonel Bill Booly, reporting as ordered, sir.”
Loy allowed a second to pass, turned, and stuck out his hand. The smile was genuine. “Booly! Good to see you.... Here, have a chair. Coffee, perhaps? The best still comes from Earth.”
Booly shook the other man’s hand and took a seat. “No, thank you sir. I topped my tanks half an hour ago.”
“A wise move,” the general said, dropping into his chair. “How was the trip?”
“Long and slow,” Booly answered, wondering where the conversation was headed. “It seemed as if we stopped at every asteroid along the way.”
Loy grimaced. “A sign of the times, I’m afraid. The bean counters cut the passenger flights six months ago. I wish the worst was behind us, but I don’t think it is.”
Booly nodded dutifully. “Yes, sir.”
Loy had deeply set eyes. They were cannonball black. He made a steeple with his fingers and peered through the triangle. “This proceeding has attracted lots of attention. You should see the headlines. ‘Supplies Stolen.’ ‘Officer Loots Legion.’ ‘Weapons Missing.’ Terrible stuff. Especially now. It’s been fifty years since the second Hudathan war, and the public is soft. We could use a police action. Might wake them up.”
The meaning was obvious, even to someone who had spent the last couple of years on the rim. The Pardo case could be used to justify further cutbacks. Booly struggled to maintain his composure. “Sir? What are you suggesting? That I alter my testimony?”
The general’s face grew hard and foreboding. “I suggest you watch your mouth, Colonel ... lest you face charges.
“Patricia Pardo has presidential ambitions, and could even win, unless this brings her down. That would be unfortunate, since the governor is one of our few supporters.”
Booly met the other man’s eyes. He refused to make it easy.
Loy broke the silence. “Pardo is guilty as hell, we both know that, and he deserves to be punished. Two years on Drang would serve the bastard right! But why punish the entire Legion for the actions of one man? The last thing we need is more negative publicity.”
Booly started to reply, but the general held up a hand. “Give it some thought ... that’s all I ask. See you in court.”
The dismissal was clear. Booly stood, said, “Yes, sir,” and turned toward the door.
Loy saw the mane of silvery gray fur that ran down the other man’s neck and winced. A half-breed. What the hell was next? Officers with scales? It made him sick. The door closed, and Booly was gone.
The conference room was small, no more than twelve feet across, and painted bile green. There were no decorations other than a poorly executed portrait of Captain Jean Danjou and a neatly framed recruiting poster. It showed a Trooper II, arms spitting death, with bodies all around. The caption read: “Last to fall.” The furnishings consisted of a much-abused wooden table, six mismatched chairs, and a government-issue waste-paper basket.
Patricia Pardo was beautiful in a hard, calculated way. Her hair was blonde, her eyes were green, and her teeth were white. When she spoke, it was with the manner of someone in the habit of giving orders. “Take a break, Foxy. I want to speak with my son.”
Henry Fox-Smith had dark skin and extremely intelligent eyes. They flicked from mother to son. He was a lawyer, one of the best, and worth every credit of his exorbitant fee. “Tell him to get his shit together, Patricia—there won’t be a second chance.”
Light rippled across the surface of his eight-hundred-credit suit as Fox-Smith crossed the room and stepped into the hall. The door clicked, and Patricia Pardo turned toward her son.
Captain Matthew Pardo had his father’s features, his mother’s eyes, and a full, rather pouty mouth. He tried to appear nonchalant but couldn’t carry it off. Not with his mother. Her voice was low but intense.
“The only thing that stands between me and the presidency is my own son. You had everything and threw it away. And for what? A few hundred thousand credits.”
Matthew Pardo stared at his shoes. “Is that all? Are you finished?”
“No,” his mother replied vehemently. “Not by a long shot! We still have a chance. Not much of one, but a chance. Foxy says that except for the breed’s testimony, the rest of the case is circumstantial. What the hell were you thinking? Not even your idiot father would have done something like that.”
“It worked for a long time,” Matthew replied defensively. “You’ve done worse.”
“Watch your mouth,” Patricia Pardo snapped. “This room could be bugged.”
“Nah, the Legion doesn’t work that way,” Mat
thew said contemptuously.
“It’s not the Legion that I’m worried about,” his mother replied darkly. “I spoke with General Loy, and he agreed to speak with Colonel Booly.”
“The furball won’t flip,” the younger Pardo replied. “Not in a million years.”
“Well, you’d better hope he does,” Patricia Pardo replied sternly, “because that’s all you have.”
The auditorium was packed with a menagerie of reporters, staff grunts, and service-issue robots.
A panel of six officers sat or stood on the stage. There was a lieutenant general, two colonels, two majors, and a couple of captains.
The fact that one of the captains was a half-ton cyborg surprised no one. Some of the borgs held field commissions. There was even talk of admitting cyborgs to the academy-though traditionalists didn’t like the idea.
Conversation stopped the moment Loy mounted the stage.
Booly felt his stomach muscles contract and wished he were somewhere else. The choice was clear: lie for the Legion or retire as a colonel. It should have been simple. Right is right. Then why couldn’t he decide?
General Loy sat at the center of a long wooden table. The gavel banged. “All right ... everyone knows why we’re here ... let’s get on with it. Well, Major Hassan? Are your weapons locked and loaded?”
“Yes, sir,” Hassan replied.
“Fire when ready.”
Hassan hadn’t fired a weapon since Officer Candidate School. His mustache twitched over what might have been a smile. “Yes, sir. The prosecution calls Staff Sergeant Rosa Carboda to the stand.”
By Blood Alone Page 1
